


Mirrors Are Wretched, Particularly Metaphorical Ones

by uisceB



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bondage, Dark Comedy, Dubious Consent, F/F, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Romance, Smut, Unrequited Love, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 03:58:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uisceB/pseuds/uisceB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I had every intention of making this light-hearted, but it very quickly spiraled down into this deep dark kind of abusive thing, which is fine, if that's what you're into, I just wanted you all to be warned.<br/>Just a little "unseen footage" of Morgana and Mithian from the Season 5's "Another's Sorrow" BEFORE they go skipping off to Camelot and Morgana puts on her old lady suit. 'Cuz I mean, really. Really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mirrors Are Wretched, Particularly Metaphorical Ones

**Author's Note:**

> So this one is actually only 1 chapter long, the other 2 chapters are 2 other stories I've already uploaded ("It's a Hug, Morgana, Tongues Aren't Typically Involved" and "Meanwhile We'll Be Cooling Our Heels in Limbo") because they're all kind of loosely connected and basically part of the same Season 5-ish world. They all work as stand-alones, but they also kind of ended up having a cohesive-ish arc to them if you squint just right so I decided to lump them together just for the funsies.  
> So this would be Part 1 of the "Morgana-Is-Generally-Dysfunctional-But-Especially-When-It-Comes-to-Girls" trilogy, followed by "It's a Hug" and then "Meanwhile." Mostly Mithian/Morgana in this one, but a bit of Morgana/Vivian and mentions of past Morgana/Gwen, Morgana/Morgause.  
> The other 2 chapters are mostly Morgana/Gwen, Morgana/Morgause, respectively.  
> Alright. That is all. And again, apologies for the darkness of this one, I promise the other two are actually kind of sweeter. Y'know, in a weird way.

I  
  
"You will do everthing I tell you, exactly as I say, or I will have your father's head on a pike" was not one of Morgana's best-constructed pick-up lines, but it's the one she ended up using on the Princess Mithian and once it was out there, there was really no taking it back.  
  
Mithian stared at the sorceress, mouth slightly agape, probably trying to figure out if Morgana was being serious, or just unhealthily hyperbolic. Utlimately though, she seemed to decide Morgana was likely capable of anything so she set her jaw and gave a curt, silent jerk of her head. Her mouth was set in a snarl, however, and her eyes remained snapping and firey beneath dark lashes.  
  
So Mithian wasn't as delicate as that face of hers would suggest. She might even have to be broken a little bit in order to be controlled. Morgana startled herself by feeling strangely intrigued by the thought. Odd. She'd thought that part of her brain had been irreparably damaged years ago.  
  
This wasn't the first time Morgana had seen Mithian, although it was the first they'd ever been properly introduced. Well. " _Properly_ " was maybe a bit optimistic. Mithian was essentially her prisoner at the moment, all bound and chained and starving. But in any case. Before, Morgana had only seen the Princess from afar, accompanying Arthur on a hunt.   
  
Had Morgana been paying attention at that time, she might have taken note of at least the general striking appearance of the Princess. But, the sorceress had been a bit preoccupied using magic to fling that troublesome Guinevere through the air and into a tree, and then transforming her into a doe in the hopes that Arthur might end up shooting her, thus killing his one true love. It was one of Morgana's more poetic revenge schemes and she couldn't help but be a little upset it hadn't panned out. That would have been one for the bards to sing about.  
  
But if not for the plotting and the magic and the high-flying soon-to-be-Queen Guinevere, Morgana might have taken more notice of the young auburn-haired woman at Arthur's side, crossbow in hand, matching the King perfectly pace for pace. Morgana _did_ remember noting that she was dressed in something of a spectacular fluffy white ensemble which, now she thought about it, reminded her of something a visionary young Druid boy she'd met once had invented called a _marshmallow_. Marshmallows were strange fluffy white things made out of the hooves of dead horses, and though they shouldn't have been, they were actually remarkably sweet and delicious. And they really did look exactly the same as what Mithian had been wearing that day. They really did.  
  
But not today. Today, the Princess was in a simpler golden gown which, in spite of it all, still managed to shimmer in the beams of sunlight streaming in through the windows of the Great Hall. Morgana watched her closely as the guards of her newest throw-away ally, King Odin, forced the Princess and her father onto their knees, swords at their captives' backs.  
  
Odin, swaggering and idiotic as ever, strode towards Mithian, taking her face roughly in his hand and drawling that she was even more beautiful than the rumors would suggest. Morgana was torn between wanting to roll her eyes and wanting to murder Odin because, really, _she_ had kind of wanted to say that. Because it was true. And it was a little cliche, but it was true.  
  
So then Mithian had sneered back that Odin was a cold-blooded murderer which, again, was true, but certainly not anything like new information. It was a nice delivery, though. Morgana already felt herself warming up to the girl.  
  
What clinched it though, was the way the Princess glared, defiant and fearless at Morgana, even as Morgana threatened her father, even as Odin's men dug their blades into the back of her neck. She had one of those blazing, unwavering stares that looked like it could set fire to the entire surrounding area.   
  
Morgana kept her own gaze locked in kind on the Princess, feeling a smirk beginning to creep into the corner of her mouth. Then she gestured for the guards to lock the Princess and her father up in the dungeons, and ran her hand fondly over the throne, reflecting that she always felt more at home when there was a throne for her to capture. Then she made a promise to Odin she had no intention of keeping and began to stalk out of the Hall.  
  
Before she reached the doors however, she paused and threw Odin a glance over her shoulder.   
  
"Just to be clear," she said, "Mithian's mine. You touch her again, and I will cause the skin on your face to wrap around your head and smother you." And then, because she realized some civility was required in alliances, she added, "I appreciate the use of your army. They're very…manful. I enjoy their use of…weapon…fighting."  
  
Whether or not this softened the threat it was hard to say; Odin was not a man of many facial expressions and Morgana had already turned to walk out the doors anyway, so it was anyone's guess as to whether or not this alliance would actually hold.   
  
But Morgana had other things on her mind right now. Mithian, for one. _Breaking_ Mithian, for two.  
  
II  
  
Although Morgana had first laid eyes on Mithian three years beforehand, _Mithian_ recalled having glimpsed the sorceress many years before that, during a tournament held at Camelot. It had been some fancy ordeal in celebration of Prince Arthur's having turned 15 and slaughtered his first ever slobbering-winged-monster-animal. Uther had invited nearly everyone in all the realms to celebrate, even some of his adversaries who declined thoughtfully by sending a poisoned cake to the citadel which Arthur, being a forever hungry and horny 15-year-old boy, had gobbled up and promptly nearly died from.  
  
Needless to say, he was not present at the tournament because he was busy trying not to be dead while the Court Physician dumped every cure and every concoction known to mankind down the boy's throat.   
  
At 13 years old, Mithian had outgrown the excitement of tournaments-- they went on too long, and the seats were never cushioned, and anyway, she could ride a horse better than most of these mustachio'd morons. Besides, she'd overheard one of her maids once whispering to the cook that it was rumored that one day, she might be chosen to marry Prince Arthur.   
  
Well. If that was to be the case, then Mithian decided she ought to at least have a look around, see if Camelot measured up to her own home in Nemeth. Mostly it was draftier, but there were a few nice rooms with the occasional fearsome tapestry hanging from the walls.  
  
What she found most interesting, however, was when she came round the corner of some stairs and spotted two girls arguing heatedly on the landing above her. Not wanting to be seen listening to them, Mithian crouched low, peeking around the corner to catch a glimpse of them.  
  
They were a few years older than her, and considerably better-dressed. Mithian was still barely holding onto the age of being permitted to continue wearing breeches and a tunic instead of being forced into gowns and frocks that did exactly _nothing_ for one's ability to ride or hunt. She felt suddenly shabby and unimpressive in comparison to the girls above her now.  
  
There was a blonde one who was drawling and bored. "I don't know what you're getting so _upset_ about, Morgana," she was saying. "I'm sure Arthur would've figured it out eventually, it's not like you're all that good at hiding it, the way you _moon_ over her constantly…"  
  
"I do not _moon_ over Guinevere, _Vivian_ ," the raven-haired girl snapped back, face haughty and sour, eyes translusent and flashing. "And even if I _did_ , you had no right to tell _Arthur_ about it, you know how he is, I'll never hear the end of it…"  
  
"Well if he dies from that cake thing, then I'd say you're pretty much off the hook," Vivian pointed out, examining her fingernails. "Really, you should be glad I told someone who might die before he gets the chance to tell anyone. You could try saying 'thank you Vivian'…"  
  
"Fuck you, Vivian," came the quick reply.  
  
Vivian seemed to consider the words for a moment, then took the brunette by the waist and pushed her back against the wall, pressing a kiss to the other girl's mouth.  
  
Mithian's eyes widened in surprise and she felt a a flush take over her entire body, checking around herself wildly, almost in the hopes that someone else had seen it too so she could share this experience with _someone_. _Anyone_ , really.  
  
But there was no one. She was the sole witness, and nothing could pry her away from this. She watched as Vivian pulled back, licking her lips with satisfaction as Morgana stared at her in utter shock.  
  
"What the _hell_ did you do that for?" the brunette demanded.  
  
Vivian rolled her eyes. "Oh, _what_ , Morgana. You like girls. I'm a girl. The best one you're ever going to find, actually, you could stand to show a little gratitude that I even considered you _worthy_ of kissing."  
  
Morgana scowled. "That was not a _kiss_ , that was a _mess_ ," she said, though Mithian thought she could detect a hint of teasing in the brunette's voice.   
  
Vivian shrugged off the insult. "It was _perfect_ ," she said, "you're just in denial because I'm not your precious _Gwen_. It's too bad, you were good. You taste really…you taste really good." She looked at Morgana thoughtfully and Mithian almost thought she was going to kiss her again-- actually, really sort of hoped she would --but then said instead, "You've got these nasty dark circles under your eyes though, they call it _beauty sleep_ for a _reason,_ you know. Might help with your handmaiden conquests."  
  
Morgana replied wih a "Fuck off, Vivian" and stalked past her down the stairs.   
  
Mithian had had to flatten herself against the wall so she wouldn't be discovered and watched Morgana disappear down the hallway, skirts fluttering behind her in a precise, clipped sort of grace that could only be found amongst the very angry, or the very pleased.   
  
And now, here, locked in her own dungeons, with her father being detained somewhere else unknown, Mithian was seeing that stride again as Morgana walked toward her, stopping when she reached the bars of the cell that separated them, smirk firmly in place. And just as she had all those years ago, Mithian shrunk from her approach and flattened herself against the wall.  
  
III  
  
Morgana could get used to this. She had commanded one of the burlier of Odin's men to bring a chair down to the dungeons and he'd outdone himself by returning with the biggest chair he could find short of the throne itself which, being made of marble, would have been a difficult thing to carry.   
  
Reclining back in the seat, she motioned to the second-burliest of Odin's men, the one who didn't speak but had a lovely collection of whips at his disposal. Wordlessly, the man made his way into Mithian's cell and looped her bound hands over a hook hanging down from the ceiling. The Princess was just tall enough that she wasn't being suspended in the air, though it looked like an uncomfortable stretch.  
  
She'd been stripped down to her shift and looked like she'd been roughed up a bit-- Morgana wouldn't be surprised if it was because the Princess had tried to make an ill-advised escape attempt in the twenty minutes it had been since she'd been thrown down here. And tightly bound as she was, she still gave one hard tug against the hook in the ceiling, eyes piercing and wild, on the alert for any weakness, any chance of escape.  
  
The girl was a figther, and a smart one at that, one who would never miss the opportunity to get in a verbal jab, or even a physical one if she could manage it. She had a proud tilt to her head, despite the circumstances, and the slight air of having been spoiled her entire life. Morgana tried hard to ignore the bit of her brain that was viciously and cacklingly pointing out just how exactly similar Mithian was to herself, back when she had been simply the Ward of Uther Pendragon and not his vengeful illegitimate daughter.  
  
"Princess Mithian," the sorceress addressed her pleasantly with a brief bow of her head. She smiled. "I have a job for you."  
  
"I am a bit busy at the moment," Mithian pointed out, "or maybe you missed the part where I've been locked in a dungeon."  
  
Morgana nodded to Odin's man who obediently drew back the whip and brought it cracking back down diagonally across Mithian's back.  
  
The Princess didn't cry out from pain so much as she did from surprise, her face going white with shock from the sudden assault. Breath trembling, she levelled her gaze back at Morgana, a shadow of fear playing at the corners of her eyes.  
  
"As I was saying, I have a job for you," Morgana repeated lazily, "one I actually think you might enjoy. You'd be reuniting siblings, old friends…more importantly, me with my crown…"  
  
"I would never help you do anything," Mithian spat, "not after what you've done to Arthur…"  
  
Morgana motioned again for Odin's man and the whip whistled cleanly down across the Princess's back, and the dungeon echoed with the sound of her yelp.  
  
Morgana leaned forward. "Isn't it amazing how every time you open your mouth to speak when I don't want you to, you get struck in the back with a whip?" she asked. "There's a lesson to be learned in there somewhere, I'm just sure of it."  
  
Mithian's face was livid, anger once again overtaking fear, but she remained silent so Morgana leaned back comfortably in her chair.  
  
"Anyway," she continued, "it's not what I've done to Arthur, it's what Arthur's done to me. If you even knew the half of it…" but Morgana wasn't going to go there, not right now. Her personal trials were her own business and had a tendency to bring up those enormously unhelpful things called emotions. So she refocused the conversation, slipping her smile back into place.  
  
"You _will_ help me," she said, "because you're not a complete moron. You know I can hurt you. You know I _will_ hurt you. I could spend all day making threats at you, but I think we both know that in the end, you'll be doing things my way because there really is no other option. Do we understand each other?"  
  
Mithian stared at her long and hard, then spit on the ground before Morgana's feet, eyes smouldering. So Morgana sighed and once again motioned for Odin's man.  
  
IV  
  
At Prince Arthur's 15th birthday tournament, Mithian had hesitated only a moment after Morgana had stalked past an irate Vivian before tearing after her to see what would happen next. Morgana struck her as a strange, mythical creature-- she kissed _girls_ , she did things with _girls_ …it was unheard of and Mithian wanted to see more of it. Maybe if she followed Morgana around long enough, it would happen again, maybe it just happened all the time, maybe with one of the visiting Ladies, maybe with the mysterious Guinevere person, maybe…  
  
The point was, if it happened again, Mithian wanted to be there to see it. It was prettier than she would have imagined, if the thought had ever even occurred to her to imagine-- more exciting. She was obsessed with it, and not really sure why. Maybe it was the hunter in her-- now that she'd had a glimpse of it she needed to track it down, understand it, own it. Morgana was like a unicorn. A very sour, angry unicorn. And she needed to be captured somehow.  
  
As it happened, Morgana stormed straight down to where the tournament was in full tilt. Her movements were agitated and restless and Mithian kept well to the shadows so as not to be seen. Chances were, a sour, angry unicorn could do a hell of a lot of damage.  
  
She watched as the raven-haired girl leaned her elbows on the fence encircling the jousting arena. Her gaze was in the direction of the knights about to face off against one another, but her mind was clearly on other things. In fact, she was practically fuming.   
  
As the knights dug their heels into their horses' hides, Morgana's fuming only seemed to intensify, and as the horses broke into a gallop, her eyes squeezed shut and her grip around the fence tightened.  
  
Mithian gasped. The ground beneath the entire arena shuddered and both knights, as well as several standing spectators, were knocked to the ground. Mithian herself grabbed onto the side of the wall she was pressed against to keep from falling over, eyes glued to Morgana who was just shocked as everyone else, but standing noticeably more upright.  
  
And as the Court Physician announced to the crowd that it was nothing to fear, probably just shifting tectonic plates, which made sense to absolutely _nobody_ , Mithian tried her best to convince herself that the earthquake hadn't been caused by Uther's Ward. Because that would just be silly. The Lady Morgana couldn't possibly have magic. She couldn't _possibly_.  
  
Except that she did. Clearly. A little rueful now as the whip descended upon her again, Mithian realized she might have saved herself the trouble of trying to convince herself otherwise as she watched Morgana now, seated outside her cell, absently conjuring a flame in her hand, only to close her fist on it, putting it out, and then conjuring it again, and again, like it was some sort of bad habit.   
  
Like nail-biting, only more deadly.  
  
It was almost enthralling, the idea that, in a fit of pure teenage rage at having been called out by Vivian, Morgana had unknowlingly caused an earthquake. And now, this adult Morgana, seated ever so comfortably and casually performing magic, in complete control of everything around her.  
  
Mithian did her best to remain resentful instead of awe-struck.  
  
At this point, the whipping had gone on for a good 15 minutes straight and there didn't seem to be any sign of it letting up any time soon. Morgana had suggested to Odin's man that his strikes might be more effective if he rid Mithian of her clothes entirely.  
  
And so, the Princess was stripped down to nothing, hands bound above her head, while Odin's man brought the whip down on her back over and over with tireless persistence. She bit her lip to keep from screaming, determined to let nothing more than the occasional grunt or hiss pass her lips. Nevertheless, her eyes welled up and she was unable to stop the fall of a tear or two. Five, maybe.  
  
She stared hard at Morgana as the whip struck again and again, and Morgana held her gaze, calmly and without emotion. If nothing else, it gave the Princess something to focus on, a puzzle to solve. After all this, how was Morgana content to simply sit back and _watch_ her? The sorceress seemed neither angry, nor happy, nor even bored. Just present. Present and watching. Though as the seconds ticked by, Mithian started to notice a heavy darkness settle in her eyes.  
  
At last, Morgana lifted a hand, though her gaze remained locked with Mithian's.  
  
"Enough," she said to Odin's man and he disappeared obediently, leaving the two of them alone.  
  
V  
  
The fact of the matter was that Morgana was never really as strong as she pretended to be. She was never as strong, never as good, never as bad. The only thing she ever seemed to be adequate enough in was weakness. And watching Mithian's beating appealed to her absolute weakest side.    
  
Several weak sides, actually.  
  
There was the obvious-- Morgana would be the absolute last person in the world to say no to the idea of spending time in the same room with a breathless, clothes-less, chained-up woman, particularly one with a face as angled and pretty as Mithian's. And after far too much time spent in isolation, or with axe-slinging meat-headed little boys, watching Mithian was a surprising jolt of a reminder that there was still blood pumping through her veins after all.  
  
On a more disturbing note, however, was just how exact Mithian's likeness was to her-- well, the _her_ of 6 years ago. It was like looking in a mirror: That haughty, spoiled, unshakable belief that she was invincible, that despite the fact that she was being beaten bloody and nearly senseless, she still seemed to believe she'd come out on top in the end. It was an air Morgana had always had when she was younger, one she'd always used with Uther, with Arthur, whenever anyone tried to make her feel like she was nothing, and it really didn't stop until the day Morgause died and Morgana realized no one was invincible.  
  
Essentially, watching Mithian being beaten was a bit like watching her younger self being beaten, and for the life of her, Morgana couldn't figure out how she felt about that-- a small part of her wanted to protect Mithian. Another, far more insidious part of her wanted to hurt Mithian even more.  
  
Honestly, Morgana would prefer it if her brain would please just stop working altogether because all it ever did was get her confused, or in trouble, and was it really so much to ask that she just be able to watch a beautiful naked woman writhing around and be able to get off on it like a normal person instead of getting turned on, and then feeling guilty, and then disgusted, and then much too hot, and then kind of cold, and then nostalgic, and then wanting to curl up in a corner and stay there until her life finally passed her by…?  
  
All of it was just so very stupidly akin to all those times she'd lusted after Gwen and been taunted by Vivian.   
  
God, she'd been reduced to an angsty teenager again. An angsty teenager with a mild torture fetish.  
  
Needless to say, when Morgana entered Mithian's cell, she was at a complete loss for what exactly she was doing there. Her intentions had started out simply enough: destroy Mithian until she was malleable enough to bribe into leading Arthur to his doom.   
  
Now, the sorceress felt remarkably uneasy, which, still, did nothing to stop her from raking her eyes over Mithian's entire body, feeling the heat radiating from both the girl's beating and her anger.  
  
The Princess's body was strong, well-muscled. Of course. Just as a hunter's would have to be. Morgana wondered briefly what it meant to a hunter to be bound like this, -- was it really all that degrading, or was it kind of a relief, kind of immensely satisfying to finally be treated like prey?  
  
For all her defiant glares (and unnecessary spitting in Morgana's direction), the exhaustion of the beating had finally worn on Mithian, and her head drooped against her chest. Her eyes fluttered up at Morgana briefly as the sorceress stood at the entrance of the cell, but then cast downward again to the floor. She wasn't defeated, though-- Morgana could see that. She was simply tired and really, she had full right to be.  
  
Careful, as though she was dealing with a very wounded, very dangerous animal, Morgana stood herself directly in front of the Princess, lifting the girl's head up by her chin, searching her eyes.   
  
"Glad to see there's still a spark there," she commented, finding herself surprisingly relieved. If Mithian could survive all this, then maybe Morgana could too.   
  
She held Mithian's face in her hand a moment longer, then reached up, releasing the Princess's wrists from the ceiling. Feeling her tense against her, Morgana almost let her go-- go, let her be free, be wild, be spoiled and sweet and very very safe.   
  
That'd be nice, wouldn't it?  
  
Instead, Morgana heard herself warn, "Don't run" and, hands gripping firmly at Mithian's hips, she circled round to the back of her. Pushing gently, she guided the Princess by the waist so she was standing at the bars of the cell, facing out. Morgana took the girl's hands and wrapped them firmly around the bars. Then she stepped back, tracing a finger down the length of Mithian's spine.  
  
"Don't let go," she told her.  
  
VI  
  
The closest Mithian had ever come to falling in love was that brief couple of days when she was engaged to King Arthur a couple years before. It was so brief, in fact, that it hardly registered. Well, it registered a little bit, because in the end, Arthur didn't love her back, he loved a woman called Guinevere, and Mithian always wondered if it was the same Guinevere she'd overheard Vivian and Morgana talking about all those years ago.  
  
Now she thought about it, she probably never really was in _love_ with Arthur. But she really liked him, his charm, his sweetness underneath all that arrogance, and how very sad he was when he talked about his sister. It was the strangest thing, to feel want for someone, and she'd wanted him so badly. She'd spent her whole life being the hunter, and with him, all she wanted was to finally be taken down.  
  
But Arthur didn't _take_ anything, he only _gave_ , because he was noble, and because his heart belonged to someone else.  
  
Still, he'd kissed her when they'd gone on a picnic together, sort of politely at first, then with a bit more wanting after a moment. He'd even sort of rolled half-way on top of her, and that felt exactly right, to be a little bit trapped and not in control.  
  
And then his manservant Merlin had gotten fidgety and uncomfortable and kept trying to make conversation about the weather while Mithian was trying to slip her tongue into Arthur's mouth, and there was nothing quite like yammering about the weather that could just completely obliterate any sense of passion. It also somehow must have reminded the King about Guinevere because he became sort of sullen again, and maybe it was really all for the best, but Mithian had really wanted him to continue.  
  
"Keep going," she'd wanted to say, but obviously didn't.  
  
It was too much to almost be owned and then let go of with nothing to show for it.  
  
VII  
  
The ligatures left in Mithian's back must be undoubtedly painful, but they were thin and not terribly deep; most of the blood had dried already. Still. Morgana felt a small pang of sympathy as she looked at them.   
  
Which fucking _hurt_ and she quickly vowed never to feel sympathy ever again.  
  
It was funny-- aside from the exhaustion, Mithian looked so perfectly _in tact_ from the front. It wasn't until you got back here that you could see how destroyed she was. Morgana felt the sudden overwhelming desire to make Mithian's entire body look just as scarred, to mark her very permanently as a damaged thing. It would be nice to finally see someone look as ripped up as Morgana felt. Just once.  
  
She traced the longest of the whip marks on Mithian's back, the one that extended from her left shoulder all the way down to her right hip. Mithian shivered against her, breath catching-- even the faintest touch against those marks was bound to burn.  
  
Knowing she shouldn't, knowing she should leave Mithian down here alone just to emphasize how ugly this could get if the Princess didn't do as she asked, Morgana stepped in close, resting one hand on Mithian's waist, and skimming the other lightly over the whip marks at the tops of her shoulder blades. Mithian whimpered very softly, almost soft enough that Morgana wasn't sure if it was just her imagination. Even if it was, it was stil enough to make the pit of her stomach twist and she reached around, closing her hands over Mithian's on the cell bars, and pressing her body flush against the Princess's back.  
  
Mithian stiffened, the muscles in her shoulders going tense and Morgana dropped her head against the crook of the girl's neck, breath heavy. Mithian squirmed in her grasp as she slid her hands down from the cell bars, one snaking down across Mithian's lower belly, the other sliding up to clutch at her breast.  
  
"Don't…" Mithian pleaded, voice breaking.  
  
Morgana froze. This was wrong. This was all wrong. This was every line she should never ever cross. And what was she even thinking, that she would ever…surprised at her own actions, she stepped back, releasing Mithian from her hold. Before she could take her hands from her completely however, she felt Mithian close her fingers over wrist, pulling it back down against her skin.  
  
"No, don't…don't stop," she amended, voice hoarse. "Please just…keep going."  
  
Morgana considered yet again that this was all in her imagination, that really Mithian was begging her to leave her alone, that Morgana was only hearing what she wanted to hear. But Mithian pulled hard on both of her arms, wrapping them around herself and beginning to guide them down to where she was hot and startlingly wet.  
  
This was much too much to handle. Morgana latched her mouth onto the knobs at Mithian's spine, first pulling her roughly against herself, then pressing her hard against the bars, getting a knee in between Mithian's legs. Mithian choked out a moan, her head falling back against the crook of Morgana's shoulder, soft and boneless in Morgana's arms.   
  
Morgana turned her head into the exposed side of Mithian's neck, inhaling deeply as she buried her face in the Princess's hair-- and God be damned if it didn't smell exactly the same as the oils Gwen had once put in Morgana's hair. Feeling almost light-headed from the scent, she dug her fingers into the inside of Mithian's thigh and bit down much too hard against the side of her throat, illiciting a pained whimper from the Princess.   
  
Morgana's fingers crept up between the Mithian's thighs, spreading her, then finally slipping up inside. It wasn't without some resistance-- it had never really occured to her that Mithian might not have done this before, though her strangled cry and the way she squirmed sort of suggested she may not have. Morgana slowed her ministrations, brushing her lips against Mithian's neck, softer this time.  
  
"You're alright, love," Morgana murmured against her skin, almost without thinking as Mithian's breaths grew deeper again as she eased into the rhythm of Morgana's fingers.  
  
"Love" was not the appropriate word to have used there, Morgana knew that. _Gwen_ had been love. _Morgause_ had been more than love. Vivian…well, Vivian had been fun in an irritating sort of way.  
  
But this right here, this was a very simple need that Morgana hadn't the slightest idea how to quanitfy. All she knew was that it was necessary, that it was even worth temporarily putting off her endeavors against Arthur, just for one more touch, one more taste.  
  
She actually felt herself beginning to quake very slightly as Mithian clenched down around her fingers, coming in small cries that nevertheless echoed through the entire dungeon.  
  
It was a long time before either of them moved. They both just sort of stayed there, slumped against each other and the bars of the cell, breathing heavily, not a word passed between them.  
  
Then Morgana pulled away and Mithian turned slowly to face her and Morgana said, "You will do everything I tell you, exactly as I say, or I will have your father's head on a pike."  
  
VIII  
  
Mithian didn't sleep for weeks, not even after Morgana's effort against Arthur had ultimately failed and Mithian had been safely returned to her father. Part of it was because Mithian feared, somewhat irrationally, that Morgana would someday return to take her vengeance on her.   
  
Part of it was because she'd do anything to be able to see her again.  
  
It was just like at Prince Arthur's 15th birthday tournament, following Morgana around, fascinated by every aspect of her. She would never be able to get enough of whatever it was that Morgana was, her power, her weakness, all of it. It was addictive. No matter whether Morgana was evil or not, she was completely addictive.  
  
Years later, Mithian would fall in love with a boy who hunted even better than she did, and they lived surprisingly happily ever after. Still, every night after the boy fell asleep, it was Morgana whose face was etched in her mind and sleep never really came easily to her again.  
  



	2. It's a Hug, Morgana, Tongues Aren't Typically Involved

  
I  
  
Morgana's hair could really do with a good brushing.   
  
That was Gwen's first thought on seeing the High-Priestess-One-Time-Queen-of-Camelot for the first time in three years. The last time she'd seen her, Morgana had been about to run her through with a very large broadsword. And she'd really only looked sorry about it for a small second or two. After that, she'd actually looked like she wanted Gwen dead.  
  
So it was just ridiculous to Gwen that now, after having not seen her in three years, and having not been her _maid_ in almost _six_ years, her immediate reaction was to want to sit Morgana down and get a comb through those tangles.  
  
From Queen to Maid in under 60 seconds. Well done, Gwen, well done.  
  
Well, it didn't matter now, it's not like Gwen really had the means to return her old mistress's hair to its former glory anyway. Reason being, her hands were bound tight with a thick and slightly splintery rope, and she was being dragged unceremoniously behind Morgana's horse through a very orange, very barren desert.  
  
Not completely barren, actually. There was a tall and twisted tower growing out of the sand a few leagues ahead of them, black and bony like a sickly tree. If this was where Morgana had been spending her days lately, Gwen certainly couldn't blame her for being a bit more maniacal than usual.  
  
Gwen tripped a little over what she hoped was not actually a _human_ bone, but was saved from landing flat on her face as Morgana pulled up reflexively on the rope, yanking Gwen back onto her feet.   
  
The dangerous green-eyed woman threw an unreadable glance back at her, then continued on, leaving Gwen to wonder if the jerking of the rope had been intended to hurt her, or help her.  
  
Either way, there was still the condition of the High Priestess's hair.  
  
Gwen remembered fondly a time when Morgana had been the _Lady_ Morgana, nearly as sweet as she was well-coiffed. Well, maybe _sweet_ wasn't quite the word. She'd always been firey-tempered, tempestuously moody, and the most impossible person to convince to just bloody _go to sleep already_. But she had been kind. And whether she liked to admit it or not, she'd had a good heart.  
  
Those had been the days of Morgana of the shiny, flowing, well-groomed locks.  
  
Now Morgana was insane and hell-bent on ruthlessly murdering everyone Gwen held dear, and her hair was…well, it would always be great because it was Morgana, but it also looked like it had possibly stood a bit too close to a lightning bolt at one point.   
  
The thought occurred to Gwen that possibly, all the evil in Morgana's nature stemmed from her hair.  
  
Then Morgana stopped at what looked like the entrance to the dark tower and slid gracefully off her horse, tugging Gwen harshly toward her with a brutal flick of the rope, and Gwen reasoned she should probably start thinking _less_ about her former mistress's hair, and _more_ about how best to avoid being killed.  
  
II  
  
Morgana was having a kind of…well, something akin to a sort of _problem._  
  
She had kidnapped Gwen, that was good. She'd used her magic to yank the Queen right off her horse as she tried to get away, that was also good, that had been fun. Then she'd pretended to offer Gwen some water, only to pour it on the ground so she couldn't drink it. That had been funny and mean, a combination Morgana found quite becoming on herself.  
  
And now, she had locked Gwen in a room positively dripping with Mandrake root, which, should everything go according to plan, would drive the woman completely mad and deliver her a slow and painful death whilst also luring Arthur to come rescue her, only to wander helplessly into Morgana's out-stretched claws.  
  
It would be killing two birds with one stone. And if Arthur brought the knights and that idiot Merlin with him, it would be killing _many_ birds with one stone.  
  
Here was the problem. Not _problem_ , Morgana didn't have _problems_ , she was _Morgana_ , but the thing that could easily be _mistaken_ for a _problem_ by an _imbecile_ : It had taken them three days to travel from where Morgana had abducted Gwen to where they were now at the Dark Tower, and in that time, Morgana had grown a little bit sort of… _accustomed_ to having her old handmaiden around again.  
  
Not handmaiden. Queen.   
  
Bitch.  
  
Anyway.  
  
Because really, the thing was, Morgana loved Aithusa, she really did. Who in their right mind could honestly _not_ love the sweetest of sweet baby dragons that had come to her rescue when she'd thought all hope was lost.  
  
But…Aithusa was a dragon. Not a person. Not someone capable of speech, or a smile, or even just a confused or angry expression. Gwen was capable of all these.  
  
Gwen was also apparently and quite unexpectedly capable of showing a phenomenal amount of cleavage in these new royal gowns of hers. It was almost enough to make Morgana feel inadequate. Or…something else.  
  
Morgana considered this…"something else" for a moment. Truth be told, many years ago, Morgana may have had a very small, hardly noticeable crush on Gwen. She may have sometimes woke screaming from her nightmares a little more desperately than was actually necessary, simply to summon Gwen to her so she could snuggle tightly into her embrace and inhale the very faintly flowery scent that seemed to follow her handmaiden everywhere.  
  
There may also have been that time that she convinced Gwen to stay up all night with her and drink till they both could hardly get a word out without falling into fits of hysterical laughter. And then in a brief moment of calm amongst the giggling, Morgana may have leant forward and kissed her a little bit, feeling her skin hot and flushed beneath her touch.   
  
Gwen may have made a surprised little "oh" and Morgana may have slipped her tongue past her lips to take the smallest taste, before they both collapsed in a heap of giggles again.  
  
In the morning they had felt dreadful, Morgana less so because she remembered everything, but also more so because she didn't know whether Gwen did.  
  
Morgana had rather hoped these memories were a thing of the past. But sitting here, alone in the Dark Tower, listening through the wall to Gwen scream as the poison of the Mandrake root began to seep slowly into her mind, Morgana couldn't help but feel a little…what was that word… _sad_.  
  
Or lonely.  
  
She drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair, sort of out of boredom, sort of to try to drown out the sounds of Gwen's screams. Then she stood with a frustrated huff and strode up the stairs to the Mandrake room and opened the door.  
  
She was just going to ask Gwen to have dinner with her. Then she'd lock her back up, and the plan would continue as before. This was nothing to worry about it. Just company for dinner, that was normal, that was bloody _polite_ was what that was. She still clearly had what it took to be a gracious hostess.  
  
Morgana was in no way in danger of getting in the way of her own evil plots and schemes.  
  
III  
  
The dining room could really do with a good dusting.  
  
Oh for heaven's sake, Gwen, you're a _Queen_ now, _stop thinking like Morgana's bloody handmaiden again…_  
  
But really though, would it have killed Morgana to wipe some of the cobwebs off the candles before seating them both down at the table for dinner?  
  
Well, maybe it would have. Morgana had certainly never had to clean anything in her life while she lived at Camelot, and possibly now that she was roaming the world like a wild thing, she just let things continue to get dirty because she actually still had no idea how to use a broom. Gwen doubted Morgause would have spent much time schooling her on the ways of good housekeeping during their time away.  
  
Wouldn't it be funny if she had though?  
  
But to return her thoughts to the matter at hand, Gwen was finding this entire set-up undeniably creepy. Morgana was serving her a plate full of food…not prison food, either. Decadent, lovely-smelling food. And she was asking Gwen if she would prefer _chicken_. _Chicken_ instead of _cow_.  
  
Did Morgana just have all these animals on hand somewhere, ready to be slaughtered and cooked and served up at her command? Or was this a magic thing? There didn't seem to be anyone else in this tower, not that Gwen would know, having been locked up in that terrifying room.  
  
She'd kept hearing voices up there. At first she thought Elyan had come to her rescue. Then his face had twisted and he'd laughed cruelly at her, before disappearing before her eyes, leaving her to wonder if he'd been there at all. There was something truly evil in that room, something that was strangely absent here at the table with Morgana.  
  
She refused the food. In all likelihood it was poison anyway, although Morgana had had the chance to kill her for days now, it seemed a little elaborate to keep her alive this long just to poison her with delicious-smelling meat.  
  
"I don't know what kind of cruel trick you're playing," Gwen said fiercely, "but I will not be broken by you."  
  
To her greatest surprise, Morgana didn't respond with a smirk or a jab or a fireball to the face. The High Priestess's expression actually sort of fell a little bit into a disappointed scowl.  
  
It was a scowl Gwen knew very well. She'd seen it all the time when Morgana had been back at Camelot with them. In those times, it was mostly directed toward Uther when Uther decided it was fitting to kill yet another one of Morgana's friends. It was a very childish little scowl, but it had some real anger, some real sadness to it.  
  
"I thought this would be _nice_ ," Morgana snapped defensively and Gwen couldn't help but feel like she was back to dealing with the same very spoiled, but very passionate princess she'd once known.  
  
Poor Morgana. Wasn't getting her way again, and Gwen actually had to restrain herself from reaching forward to soothingly tame that wild hair of hers.  
  
This was all starting to get a little too strange for her.  
  
IV  
  
Morgana felt like an idiot. She wasn't one, obviously, but she bloody felt like one. It was Gwen's eyes that did it. Those big dark doe eyes.  
  
Maybe Morgana should cut those eyes out. Feed them to Aithusa. Or maybe to the crow. Crows enjoyed eyeballs, didn't they? Probably they enjoyed most things that were dead, they were crows.  
  
Morgana had a weakness for eyes like that. Morgause…her beautiful Morgause had had eyes like that. Intensely dark, and frighteningly still. Morgana felt like her own eyes were never still, always moving, always snapping this way and that, on the lookout for danger.  
  
But she could always be soothed just by _looking_ at Morgause.  
  
Just by _looking_ at Gwen.  
  
It must really be something to have eyes like that, eyes that could just be open and waiting, instead of darting and cruel.  
  
She never should have asked Gwen to dine with her. Because Gwen had sat there, all self-righteous and brave in that quiet way of hers, and fixed those pretty eyes on Morgana, and Morgana had fallen into them just a little bit so that she told Gwen, she told her about how she'd been locked at the bottom of a black pit for two years.  
  
Secrets had always been Morgana's strength. If it's one thing she learned from Morgause, it was that you must never reveal what you were really up to until the last possible moment. Truth was weakness, it allowed people to know you, and if they knew you, they could hurt you.  
  
Now Gwen could hurt her.  
  
So Gwen was locked back up in the Mandrake room where she belonged.  
  
Morgana hoped the Mandrake poison finished her off quickly. Nothing good could come of this whole "let's tell each other secrets and bond" thing.  
  
V  
  
The poison was not finishing Gwen off quickly, it was making her very dizzy.  
  
Twice now, she had been totally convinced that Merlin was behind her, chasing her around a column, roaring like a demented lion. She had run around and around and around that column, and was now sitting with her back against it, out of breath and head spinning. There were people lurking in every shadow, she knew it, and she was beginning to seriously regret having refused Morgana's food offer as her stomach growled loudly, causing her to leap to her feet, afraid it was Merlin again.  
  
She closed her eyes.  
  
Mistake. Now it was a sickly-looking Arthur standing above her, cackling in a way that was best left to old crones and demonic children.  
  
She slid back down to the floor lifting her hands shakily to her face. Not her Arthur. Not her Arthur when what she needed most was a familiar face…  
  
The door opened and Gwen squinted upwards. Morgana. Not exactly the familiar face she'd had in mind but…  
  
But.  
  
Uhm.  
  
Morgana had slid down to her knees so she was level with Gwen and now threw her arms around Gwen's neck, holding tight.  
  
So this was it. This was how she died, Morgana strangling her with her arms. Not even with her hands like a normal person, with her _arms_. Looks like poor Morgana really _had_ lost her mind if she'd forgotten how to properly strangle a person.  
  
Except…no, nope. Morgana was not strangling her, or else she was a lot weaker than Gwen would have ever guessed. Morgana was…was Morgana _hugging_ her?  
  
"Are you drunk?" Gwen asked, or tried to, but her mouth was sort of engulfed by Morgana's wild hair.  
  
"My darling, it was wrong of me to make you suffer," the High Priestess was saying, and squeezed her tighter.  
  
 _My darling?_   
  
This was a lot to handle right now. Arthur, Merlin and Elyan were hovering around the fuzzy outskirts of her mind, grinning sadistically, laughing in her face and Morgana…Morgana was here, in front of her, clutching onto her the way she'd used to when she woke up from a bad dream.  
  
Shocked and very confused, Gwen allowed herself to melt just ever so slightly into the hug. Morgana had opened up to her the night before…could it be that maybe she…you know, aside from the killing and all that…maybe she wasn't so evil after all?  
  
And really, in this horrible place where nightmares came to life before her eyes, is this how Morgana lived every day? Every night? And on top of all that, alone?  
  
Gwen actually found herself hugging Morgana back, even getting a hand over Morgana's hair, finding it surprisingly soft, despite its ability to frighten away brushes and combs by its mere appearance.  
  
Hoping Morgana might not notice, Gwen sort ran her fingers through a section of the High Priestess's hair, aiming to get rid of a particularly nasty tangle. (She really couldn't help herself, alright, it was _right there_ ). Then of course her fingers caught in the tangle and Gwen found herself more or less stuck to Morgana's head.  
  
Gwen froze. No good could come of this. One should never pet a Morgana. That was like petting an angry wolf. And now Gwen was sort of a bit attached to the angry wolf. Which meant she was likely to get her head bitten off.  
  
Morgana moved against her and Gwen braced herself for the killing blow, screwing her eyes shut and going rigid.  
  
The blow never came.  
  
Morgana was nuzzling against her neck.  
  
Read: Morgana was _nuzzling._  
  
Gwen pulled back like a shot, yanking her entangled hand from Morgana's hair which caused Morgana's head to be yanked painfully to the side.  
  
" _Ow!_ "  
  
"I'm-- sorry, Morgana…"  
  
"What on Earth did you do that for?"  
  
"Well what on Earth were _you_ doing?"  
  
Morgana straightened back a bit, her face taking on that childish scowl again which, for whatever reason, was becoming almost endearing to Gwen.  
  
"I was…" Morgana looked lost. "You know, _comforting_ you…I heard you…you sound...you seemed…upset or…something…"  
  
"Upset?" Gwen almost laughed, except that it looked like she could possibly see Elyan shuffling dangerously in the shadows and that sort of made her eye twitch a little bit. "Upset?" she repeated. "You kidnapped me!"  
  
"Yes, well…"  
  
"Yes well what?"  
  
"Yes well I'm s _orry_!" Morgana shouted.  
  
Gwen gaped. "You're _sorry_?"  
  
Morgana set her jaw, not making eye contact with Gwen. "I never said that."  
  
"You _just_ said that."  
  
"You're obviously going completely mad, I will no longer continue this conversation with you."  
  
The High Priestess struggled to find her feet and Gwen, far much more to her own surprise than even Morgana's, reached her hand out to stop her, closing it over Morgana's wrist.  
  
This was bad. This was very bad. But Morgana -- aside from the messy hair, the black dress, and the near-skeletal appearance of her cheekbones -- looked frighteningly like the Morgana Gwen had once served under. Those wide, frightened eyes…it was funny and a little sad, no matter how powerful Morgana got, her eyes would always be full of that same fear.  
  
Gwen pulled Morgana against her, hesitated for a moment, then wrapped her arms around her and held her close.  
  
Morgana stayed stubbornly rigid against for her the tiniest of seconds before drawing herself in even closer, seeming like she was trying to burrow herself into Gwen's arms.  
  
Yes, Gwen remembered now. Morgana had never really known how to just lay still in someone's arms and allow herself to be held, she always needed to find a way to get closer, even if this was actually an impossible task. She would squirm and cling, clutching at whoever it was with a fierce sort of desperation. That had been Morgana in the old days.  
  
Morgana now was even worse. The years of loss and solitude had obviously only left her feeling emptier than ever and at the moment, she seemed to be holding onto Gwen for dear life.  
  
And her hands were wandering Gwen's body.  
  
And…  
  
Gwen gasped a little. Morgana slid her hand up so that it cupped Gwen's jaw, and then pulled Gwen's mouth to hers, pressing into her lips in a way that Gwen could only think to describe as questioning.  
  
The kiss was surprisingly soft, and that's why Gwen found herself unable to pull away at first. No one who had done the things Morgana had done should be allowed to kiss that softly. Certainly not that innocently. Although, Gwen realized with a jolt, not that innocently, as Morgana slipped her tongue delicately against Gwen's lips, working them open so sweetly, Gwen almost didn't notice.   
  
And then of course, she _did_ notice and pulled back, hand flying up to Morgana's shoulder to hold her back.  
  
"What are you doing?" she demanded.  
  
"You…you were hugging me!" Morgana accused.  
  
"Yes, Morgana, _hugging_ you. Tongues aren't typically involved in that sort of thing," Gwen informed her.  
  
"I think you should leave," Morgana said huffily, standing to her feet.  
  
"I…really?"  
  
Morgana seemed to realize her mistake. "No, nevermind, you can't leave, I still need to kill you. And Arthur hasn't even showed up yet. Where the hell is your husband?"  
  
"I don't know, I saw him lurking in the shadows earlier and he and Merlin and Elyan were trying to kill me, and I've got a headache…"  
  
Morgana jumped, wheeling around. "Arthur's _here_?" she cried. She looked around wildly for a moment, then seemed to realize something and turned back to Gwen, more in control. "Tell me, when you saw Arthur, did he come in through the door, or did he just sort of appear before your eyes unexpectedly and then vanish?"  
  
"The second one," Gwen told her.  
  
"Ah. I see. Well then, I'll see you in the morning."  
  
"Morgana, you're not going to just _leave_ me here!" Gwen cried, grabbing the other woman's arm.  
  
Morgana halted, her gaze dipping down to where Gwen's hand gripped her elbow. "Well that would depend," she said, taking a step into Gwen who stiffened uncertainly. "How are you feeling about your beloved Arthur right now?"  
  
VI  
  
If it's one thing Morgana was getting good at, it was using the Mandrake root. Just two days locked in the room, and Gwen had mentally shifted Arthur from love of her life, to bloodthirsty killer bent on her destruction.  
  
Also this new thing where Morgana's tongue was between her legs, that may or may not have swayed the Queen of Camelot's opinion to some extent.  
  
Morgana lay on her back on top of the covers of her bed, Gwen sleeping soundly beside her. Gwen always slept soundly, Morgana thought, a little jealous. Back when Morgana had been too afraid to face her dreams by herself, she'd made Gwen stay the night in her chambers with her, hoping her presence might scare away the shadows. Mostly it didn't work, but Morgana always liked being able to look over across the room to see her maid curled up securely by the fire, blissful and serene. It allowed her to believe things might someday be okay.  
  
Now, Morgana rolled over on her side, putting her back to Gwen. Things had not gone according to plan. Gwen was supposed to be dead now, and so was Arthur -- Gwen from the draining weight of the Mandrake root, Arthur from the traps Morgana had set for him when he entered the Dark Tower to rescue the Queen.  
  
Instead, Morgana had been an idiot. She'd listened to Gwen screaming in fear, and she'd heard herself in those screams, and she'd gone to comfort Gwen, and then, of all things, she'd kissed her. That horrible fatal kiss like when they were teenagers, and Morgana just really couldn't kill her.  
  
So she'd allowed her to be rescued. Sort of. The Mandrake root had been successful in a way Morgana had not foreseen: rather than simply driving Gwen mad, it had turned her against Arthur, which made her a powerful ally in Camelot, a possible assassin for Morgana to use at a moment's notice.  
  
And on nights like these, when Gwen could slip away into the forest to alert Morgana to the King of Camelot's actions…well, they usually ended up like this, naked and tangled in the sheets of Morgana's bed.  
  
It wasn't like how it had been with Morgause, Morgana thought. Morgause was her always, her everything -- never once had she woken up tangled in _sheets_ , in those times, she'd always woken up tangled in _Morgause_. There was no magic, no brain-washing, no deceit. There was harshness, there was possessiveness, there was constant craving, but for all its darkness, it was the safest Morgana had ever felt. With Morgause, she belonged somewhere, she belonged to someone.  
  
Here with Gwen, Morgana didn't _want_ this to be true, but she knew it anyway…there was no way this could last. Gwen was her teenage crush, her sweetest comfort, and now, very much the person standing in her way to her rightful place on Camelot's throne.  
  
As far as Gwen knew, it was all real. That was the Mandrake root for you, made you pliable, gullible. And very sweet, edible, almost…Morgana turned over to look at Gwen.  
  
Very bad. Very very bad decision-making. Should've stuck with the original plan. Should've killed everybody in one fell swoop. Should've…  
  
Gwen stirred in her sleep, letting out a soft sigh, and Morgana absolutely could not stop her arm from winding around the other woman's waist to pull her close and kiss her softly on the neck.  
  
And then not so softly. She nipped at the flesh just below Gwen's ear, dragging her teeth lazily down to her collar bone, digging her fingers into Gwen's thigh as she heard the other woman wake with a startled gasp.  
  
"Morgana?" Gwen murmured, still dazed from sleep.  
  
"Shh, I need this," Morgana said, mouthing over Gwen's breasts and then clamping down to suck hard on her nipple, sliding over to get herself in between her legs.  
  
Gwen moaned, tangling her fingers in Morgana's hair.  
  
Morgana glided her fingers, feather-light between Gwen's legs, then harder as Gwen urged her on, wrapping her legs around her waist and pulling her face against her breasts.  
  
Morgana smiled a little in spite of herself -- Gwen's breasts were…well, they were…there they were. They were a very nice couple of things to get lost in for a little while as she worked her fingers up between Gwen's legs. They were also a nice location to explore with her teeth and tongue as Gwen's moans turned into high-pitched whines and then desperate gasps, making her chest heave fantastically against Morgana.  
  
Finally all of Gwen's movements slowed and she shuddered a last time, rubbing her legs slickly against Morgana's sides.  
  
"Oh my god, Morgana," she said breathlessly, dragging her fingers exhaustedly down Morgana's spine.  
  
Morgana withdrew her hand but stayed snuggled against the other woman, feeling somewhere between very satisfied, and very sad as a strange realization dawned on her that this was the last time she would ever be with Gwen like this.  
  
"I'm not going to see you again, am I?" Morgana said against her neck, feeling suddenly drowsy.  
  
"What are you talking about, Morgana, you'll see me tomorrow," Gwen laughed, sweet as always.  
  
"No, you'll be his again by tomorrow," Morgana murmured, allowing sleep to start washing over her. "He'll take you away from me and I won't ever see you again. But I'll fight for you, I promise. Even though I know you won't remember and you won't want me to. I promise I will."  
  
And Gwen stroked her hair, not at all sure what her mistress was talking about, but by the next day it didn't matter anyway because Morgana was right, Arthur broke the spell and Gwen was his again.  
  
It's fine, Morgana thought, burrowing under her covers that night. She was basically done dealing with people and all their crazy complexities anyway. It would have to be just her and Aithusa again for a little while.   
  
Didn't matter. Morgana would just kill everybody now. No one left in the world, there'd be no one left to make her sad anymore.  
  
Sounded like a plan.


	3. Meanwhile, We'll Be Cooling Our Heels in Limbo

I  
  
Morgana was relatively sure she was dead, and thus, was relatively _unsure_ why she seemed to currently be sitting on a large stony throne in the middle of an empty hall, inhaling, exhaling, and even wiggling her fingers and toes like a living person. If this was yet another one of those times that she'd been poisoned or stabbed or thrown against a wall only to find that she was somehow suddenly and inexplicably _alive_ , she might throw a minor fit. Because really, if she was being honest here (and why not be honest, this was a private brain conversation after all) she was really just very tired. Really very tired of having to get back up again.  
  
Well, that sounded awfully depressing, didn't it. It was true though. It's not that she was ever, you know, _happy_ at the prospect that she may have just been murdered by Merlin or Mordred or some random jerk with a sword, but sometimes it was a little bit of a relief to be able to just _lie down_ for a moment. And consider staying that way forever.  
  
So what the bloody hell was this? _This_ time, she'd been sure she was dead. And at first, she was not happy about it. She'd always rather imagined that whenever it was that she eventually had to face off against Emrys it'd be quite the show.  Dragons, swords, lightning. Fireworks, maybe. Lots of wind, and some glass shattering. She wasn't really sure where this glass would be if they were outside, but if there was, it would be broken in a million tiny pieces. And sure, everyone had always told her that Emrys was her _doom_ , but she'd always imagined dragging him down with her.   
  
Instead, Emrys had stabbed her. Plain and simple. That was it. The end.  
  
But then, as he withdrew his sword from her gut , and things got darker, and she realized that yes, in fact, that was _her_ blood tumbling out of her, she got a little used to the idea of dying. Sleep. Finally, after an entire lifetime of not being able to, just a little peace and bloody quiet.  
  
So there'd better be a damn good explanation for why she was apparently, and quite distressingly, not dead.  
  
"Morgana."  
  
The sound came unexpectedly and froze the blood in her. (Assuming there was actually blood _to_ freeze, given that she was supposed to be dead, shouldn't her blood be rather immobile already?)  
  
"Morgana, look at me."  
  
Morgana looked very pointedly at the floor. She knew that voice entirely too well and whether she was afraid she was wrong, or afraid she was right, she couldn't find it in herself to look up at the source of the sound.  
  
Seemed she didn't need to. Feather-light, a cool hand grazed against her cheek and then lingered, tracing faintly at her jaw.  
  
Morgana let out a breath and closed her eyes, leaning into the touch very slightly. If she'd had any doubt before, it was gone now; she'd know that touch anywhere, though she'd never thought it would be hers to feel again.  
  
She opened her eyes. Crouched at her side, looking up at her with wide dark eyes, was Morgause. Morgause _alive_. Not a single scar could be found on the blonde woman's face; she looked exactly the way she had all those years ago when Morgana had first laid eyes on her.  
  
Morgana regarded her sister, motionless. Then--  
  
"I swear to God if this is a dream I'm going to kill someone."  
  
"You often kill people, love, forgive me if that's not the most flattering thing I've ever heard," Morgause replied softly.  
  
"Someone I like, I mean," Morgana amended, trying to keep in control. "Mordred maybe."  
  
"Mordred's already dead."  
  
"Someone else I like then."  
  
"Do you like anyone else?"  
  
"Not in particular."  
  
Morgause's face broke into a smile and she brushed her thumb over Morgana's lower lip. "That's my girl," she teased.  
  
Morgana wanted to smile back. She wanted to suck Morgause's thumb into her mouth, she wanted to tackle her to the ground and lose herself inside her, she wanted…she wanted every piece of Morgause that had been denied her these past four years.  
  
Instead, she found herself answering flatly, "I'm not your girl anymore," and standing to her feet.   
  
She was momentarily afraid that the act of standing would not work out-- after all, she was meant to be dead. But her motions were strong and fluid as ever, and she strode down the steps of the throne and into the stale openness of the empty hall. Behind her, she heard the rustle of Morgause's dress as she stood to her feet as well.  
  
Morgana went to the window, glancing out to find that wherever she was, it was surrounded by the thickest layer of fog she'd ever come across. She had a short image of wrapping herself up in the fog and going to sleep for a century or two and nearly smiled. Then she skidded her finger against the window sill and found the tiniest scrape-mark of blood bubble up.  
  
"So…I seem to be sort of alive," she commented.  
  
It was strange, she could actually feel the tension in the air intensify as she spoke, almost as if she could see Morgause's discomfort at her tone. They'd had that before, where neither of them really needed to speak ever, they could always just feel what the other was thinking. Of course then, they'd been having a slightly better time, what with the grand plans and the plotting. Things were a bit more icy now that the war was over and they were more or less on the losing team.  
  
"I wouldn't go so far as to say _alive_ ," Morgause answered, tone cautious. "But you're a far cry from dead, so there's a start."  
  
Morgana actually smirked at that, but refused to turn to look at her sister. "You really like keeping me in the dark, don't you?" she asked, unable to stop herself from rolling her eyes a bit. "Would it kill you to give me a straight answer for once?"  
  
She listened to Morgause's footsteps as the blonde crossed the expanse of the floor haughtily to join her at the window. The older woman lingered behind her, seemingly gathering her thoughts. Morgana wouldn't be surprised to find her sister fuming behind her in that silent way of hers.  
  
"Fine, how's this for a straight answer?" Morgause hissed finally, and the sound of her anger shot an unexpected warmth all throughout Morgana's body. "You and me? We get to lounge about these parts for the next few hundred years until that miserable brother of yours decides to come back to life and be the great once and future savior of whatever the hell the future has in store for us."  
  
Morgana turned to look at her. "…We have to stay _here_? There are…cobwebs here. Spiders, probably."  
  
"Christ, Morgana, it's the Isle of the Blessed, I'd say it's a fair few steps up from that _hovel_ you insisted on living in a few years ago," Morgause snapped. "Certainly better than that prison pit you got yourself locked up in."  
  
"I didn't _get myself locked up_ …"  
  
"Well it took you long enough to get out--"  
  
"And it wasn't a _prison pit_ , it's called an _oubliette…"_  
  
"It was a small room made of stone built under ground, that is a _prison_ and a _pit_ if I ever saw one."  
  
They glared at one another for a moment. Then Morgana said, "You know an awful lot about what's happened to me for being a dead person."  
  
"And you know shockingly little about anything for being a seer," her sister returned. She looked down to get her anger under better control. Morgana almost wished she wouldn't. It was a rare sight to actually see Morgause riled up, and she found she rather liked it.  
  
"Arthur will rise again, and when he does, we'll be given a second chance," Morgause told her. "You, me, Mordred, Nimueh…" She paused, wrinkling her nose. "…Merlin as well."  
  
"I guess it was too much to hope I could just fucking rest in peace," Morgana mumbled, turning back to the window.  
  
Morgause seized her wrist and spun her back around to face her. "We're _magic_ , Morgana, very much linked to Arthur Pendragon and everything he does, we don't just _disappear_ ," she snarled.   
  
"I don't know, Merlin stabbed me, I stabbed you…seemed like a fairly clear-cut disappearing act to me," Morgana drawled. She could actually see the physical effort it took for Morgause to bite back a retort.  
  
"We have a second chance," the older woman repeated resolutely. "Morgana, this is a gift, this is…this is our destiny…"  
  
Morgana barked out a harsh laugh. "I can tell you right now, me and destiny have a shit record together," she said. "So not to sound… _ungrateful_ for this glorious _gift_ …but if we've got a few hundred years ahead of us with nothing to do but think about _Arthur_ , I think I'll spend it working out ways to off myself in a more permanent manner. If you don't mind."  
  
Morgause folded her arms across her chest, throwing her head back and Morgana couldn't help but flutter inwardly at the power in that tiny gesture. "Well. I can see you're going to be absolutely _hilarious_ for the next millennium or so," the blonde woman said haughtily.  
  
"Millennium," Morgana repeated. "You distinctly said several _hundred_ years. Not a millennium."  
  
"Time's what you make it, my sweet," Morgause said with a sneer. "I myself had rather pictured us taking turns fucking each other on the throne and figuring out new and improved ways to use the very nicely-stocked torture chamber downstairs to pass the time. But, if you're insisting on being a downer…"  
  
Morgana set her jaw. There was a time when those few images alone would have been enough to coax her onto her knees in front of her sister. She would have happily done anything that entered Morgause's mind, without the slightest hesitation.  
  
But she'd also been stupider then. Weaker. And with quite a few less scars to show and tales to tell.  
  
So she leveled her gaze at Morgause and allowed a cutting, rueful smile to curl her lips. "You're right," she said, relieved that the words were released without tremor. "I must be a great disappointment to you."  
  
Then she turned on her heel and stalked off in search of…whatever privacy this floating island of limbo could actually afford a mostly-dead High Priestess with a case of the blues.  
  
II  
  
As it was, Morgana soon found out that _privacy_ was more or less exactly like _loneliness_ , and the knowledge that she now had several hundred years…a millennium…whatever, great bloody gobs of time before having to actually get dressed up in her battle gear once again and fight the good fight…well, it was doing absolutely nothing for her peace of mind.  
  
And Morgause…why was she trapped here with _Morgause_? Of all people…it could have been Mordred. It could have been Uther--could have been fucking Merlin (though apparently he was still waltzing around amongst the living, that creep).  
  
But not Morgause. Not the one person who remembered her from before all this _shit_. Everyone else had already witnessed her tragic downfall, but Morgause had died thinking there was still _hope_ for her. Well, cheers, Morgana had survived just long enough to dig herself into her own grave, and she was an absolute _mess_ for all that effort.  
  
That was the worst of it, wasn't it. She really _must_ be a disappointment to Morgause. She'd managed to outlive her only to fail exactly everything they'd fought for.  
  
That, or this was all she was ever meant to become anyway.  
  
Well, there was a chilling thought.  
  
Unable to relax, Morgana took to wandering the halls. It was not exactly comforting. The last time she'd been here, it had been for the sole purpose of killing Morgause. Obviously, at Morgause's behest, but still. For all her sister's claims that this had once been a glorious place of magic and wonder and happy naked rituals, the only feeling Morgana could get from it was one of death.  
  
(Which was extra fitting now, since it would serve as her death sentence for the next great expanse of indeterminable amount of time).  
  
"I see you're still the most committed insomniac ever to walk the Earth," came a voice behind her and Morgana halted feeling weariness creep over her.  
  
She turned to see Morgause leaning one shoulder against the wall behind her.  
  
"How do you always manage to do that?" Morgana asked. Morgause raised her eyebrows. "How are you always behind me, anytime I go anywhere? You did that when we were alive too. It's fucking uncanny."  
  
"I used to stalk you more often than is actually appropriate," Morgause admitted with a hint of a smile. "It's actually even more fun now, you've got quite the swagger to your walk these days."  
  
The older woman stepped forward so she was mere inches from her sister. It took every ounce of courage and strength she possessed for Morgana not to step back. Or forward.  
  
Morgause lifted up her hand to cup Morgana's jaw. It was a thing she did. A very effective thing she did. It would be so easy to step away from, but at the same time, far too devastating to even consider.  
  
"You're thinner too," Morgause observed, brushing her thumb over the sharp angle of her sister's cheekbone. Her hand grazed down Morgana's neck, to her shoulders, down to her waist, and rested there firmly.   
  
Morgana felt her breath catch in her throat, hoping it didn't show. Trying to steady herself, she only managed to inhale shakily, raising her own hand to skim her knuckles over the right side of her sister's face-- the side that, last she'd seen, had been buried beneath a twisted mass of scars.  
  
"Of the two of us, you certainly look…better preserved," Morgana agreed.  
  
Morgause smiled, holding her sister's hand against her face with her own. "Benefits of spending time in a magical limbo land," she said, "you'll find you can look however suits you best. You could shave a few years off, add a few on…hell, you could make yourself look like that old hag you were posing as that time you imprisoned Vivien."  
  
"Mithian," Morgana corrected, "and how on Earth do you _know_ that?"  
  
"Morgana," Morgause said smiling, "You know me. I am overbearingly protective, and more or less completely obsessed with you, which means I am exactly a half-step shy of being an actual stalker, and if you honestly believe that that has changed just because I died, you are woefully mistaken."  
  
Morgana found herself smiling, just a little bit, and Morgause pressed their foreheads together. "So please, will you stop pretending we're strangers and let me hold you?" the older woman concluded.  
  
It was the word stranger that did it. Morgana bit her lip and slid her hand up to Morgause's shoulder, pushing her away softly. "We are strangers," she said. "I'm not the King's Ward anymore, I'm not your sister anymore…I'm not yours at all. Whatever Morgana you thought you were in love with, she's long gone. It's just me now."  
  
"I like the you now," Morgause said firmly. "I told you, that's a hell of a swagger you've got."  
  
"You don't _know_ the me now," Morgana said, fully detaching herself from her sister and taking a step back. "And I promise, you really wouldn't like me very much."  
  
An icy sort of shadow fell over Morgause's face and Morgana was quickly reminded of just how dangerous her sister could become when angered.  
  
The blonde woman's voice was cold as she said, "I'll tell you one thing, Morgana Pendragon, you're just as bloody self-important as you were when I first met you. You're arrogant as ever, spoiled, you've still got that fight in you, but you're aiming it in absolutely the wrong direction, just like always. You might be surprised to learn how _little_ you've actually changed."  
  
And before Morgana had time to summon even the weakest response, the blonde woman closed the distance between them, shoving Morgana up against the wall and kissing her with bruising force.  
  
Morgana gasped, clinging weakly to Morgause as the older woman consumed her in that all-too familiar mess of brutality and tenderness. The younger sister tangled her fingers in golden curls, moaning wantonly as Morgause slipped her tongue devilishly against her own.  
  
"There," Morgause said darkly, pulling away as suddenly as she'd begun. She had Morgana trapped against the wall and breathing heavily, she could have done anything she wanted. Instead, she hissed, "Exactly the _fucking same_ ," and stormed away, leaving Morgana breathless and cold.  
  
III  
  
So, "Limbo" was apparently just another word for "Hell" and "Isle of the Blessed" was another word for…"Most Awful Place in the World Ever, Even Worse than the Oubliette Prison Pit Only With More Leg Room So That's Nice."  
  
Morgana was weirdly torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to cry about the fact that, in spite of everything, the only person who could ever really make her want to die was Morgause, even now, even to this very day. Except that now she wasn't allowed to die. And Morgause was her fellow Limbo-bound inmate. It was hilarious, it was stupid, it was depressing.   
  
Morgana really wished one or several of the Knights of the Round Table were around so she could have someone to torture to death. Say what you would about it, there was nothing like a good torture session to take the edge off things. That's why she'd actually developed some bit of a fondness for Sir Gwaine. Now there was a man who knew how to enjoy pain.  
  
Gwaine, pain. Perhaps she should consider taking up poetry for the next few centuries, she clearly had a knack for rhymey things.  
  
Or she could drown herself. Morgana really wanted to drown herself. Not that that was really an option if she was technically already dead. Half-dead. Cooling her heels in Limbo for a few centuries.  
  
Morgana considered her options. Even assuming that one _could_ kill oneself whilst in Limbo, there was still that nasty question of "what next?" Was that it and she could finally get a little shut-eye? Or was there just another Limbo waiting for her after that? And another one after that? And another and another and another until finally Arthur bloody woke up already?  
  
Well, if death didn't kill her, all this thinking certainly would. Morgana was giving herself a headache. Which, she believed, should be illegal in crazy Limbo land.  
  
Her restless wandering eventually led her to the dungeons below the castle, and behind them, the torture chamber. Empty shackles dangled from the ceiling and the walls were almost overtaken with a vast array of whips, spikes, and various devices Morgana would not even know where to begin figuring out how to use. There was a small window in the far wall, angled upward, allowing a small stream of moonlight in. The rest of the chamber was lit with torches and candles, giving it an eerie, flickering restlessness.  
  
Morgana wasn't surprised to see her sister there with a giant book open on her lap. Interesting choice, to keep the weapons of torture and the books all together in one room. Of course, depending on the book, it could make a lot of sense.  
  
Taking a breath, Morgana stepped out of the shadows and into the open. "So a place called the Isle of the Blessed has a torture chamber," she said, announcing her presence.  
  
Morgause looked up from the book, expression still a little cold but with a touch of hopefulness etched around the corner. "My idea," she said. "Well, mine and Nimueh's. Back when there were lots of us here, she and I thought it added something of a homey touch."  
  
"Quite, _homey_ ," Morgana murmured, running her fingers along the edge of what looked like a giant iron fishing hook. She was surprised to find it still sharp and withdrew her hand as the edge of it cut just deep enough to break the surface of her skin. She shuddered inwardly, feeling Morgause's steady gaze on her back.  
  
She turned back to face her. "So. What are you doing down here?" she asked conversationally.  
  
Morgause looked incredulous for a moment before tilting the book up for her sister to see. "Learning," she answered. "About this place, about what we're doing here."  
  
"And what _are_ we doing here?"  
  
"Mostly waiting," Morgause admitted, "but it's interesting how we got here. Seems all of us who are Waiting--that's Waiting with a capital W, by the way--we all get called to Wait in a place that was home to us, a place of power. For Arthur, that's Avalon, for me, it's this place. I'd imagine Mordred's found his way to some Druid relic or another. Nimueh…well who really knows about Nimueh, she was always a bit of a wild card."  
  
"And me?" Morgana asked. "Why would I be called here? The Island of the Blessed was never my home."  
  
Morgause gazed at her carefully. For a moment, Morgana actually dared to hope her sister might say something like "Sweetheart, I used my magical stalking powers to call your soul to mine across oceans and deserts of time" and didn't really know how to feel about the fact that she actually  wanted to hear that. Or some slightly less stupid-sounding variation of it anyway.  
  
Instead, Morgause closed the book and got to her feet. "I'm not sure," she said. "Maybe because you never really had a home. Not in Camelot, not with the Saxons. Not in your silly hovel. You've always gone where I go."  
  
The blonde woman crossed the room to stand a breath away from Morgana, taking the younger sister's chin in her hand. Her eyes bored into Morgana's, harder than the brunette had ever seen them. "Still mine," Morgause said, voice low. Her nails dug delicately into Morgana's skin.  
  
A part of Morgana wanted to protest-- she'd come a long way from the sweet young thing Morgause had spirited away from Camelot so many years ago. But at the same time, she didn't trust herself to speak, not when every vein in her body seemed to be on fire. So she shook her head and tried not to breathe.  
  
"No?" Morgause asked, looking amused at Morgana's silent protest. "What, you've become too strong for me, too good for me?"  
  
Morgana bit her lip, daring to speak, though her voice came out no louder than a pathetic squeak. "I don't know whether I've failed you, or if I've just become exactly what you always wanted me to become," she said. "But whatever it is, I'm not yours anymore. I can't be."  
  
Morgause stepped even closer into her so Morgana's back was pressed up against the wall, and dipped her head to breathe hotly into her ear, "And what have I always wanted you to become?"  
  
Morgana shuddered. "Nothing," she forced out. "Just another dead soldier in a war I get to wait a millennium to see the end of."  
  
Morgause pulled back just far enough to be able to look Morgana in the face, a pained smile twisting her mouth. "Ah, _now_ we're getting somewhere," she said, smoothing the brunette's hair back. "You think _I_ did this to you."  
  
"I wasn't…blaming you…" Morgana protested feebly.  
  
Morgause reached her arm over to the collection of jagged instruments hanging from the wall to the left of Morgana, unhooking a small dagger from its display and pressing it lightly to the dip of her sister's collarbone. Morgana pressed herself flat against the wall, trying to get as much distance between the tiny weapon and herself as possible. It wasn't much.  
  
"You could if you wanted to," Morgause was saying softly, "Blame me, I mean." She glided the miniature dagger up the front of Morgana's throat making the younger woman shiver and dig her nails into the stone wall behind her for some sense of reassurance. "You could blame me for every horrible thing you've ever been through," Morgause continued. "Then you could turn around and blame Uther, blame Merlin, blame Arthur…we could spend the entire rest of our time here trying to shovel out the blame for what you've become."  
  
The blonde woman reached down, knife still in hand, and pushed Morgana's skirts slowly up her leg till they were hoisted almost to her waist. The younger woman's breathing was coming in deep shudders and her eyes were locked with Morgause's, wide, fearful, and desperately dark.  
  
Morgause pressed her mouth to Morgana's ear. "But I think we both know," she said, "that at the end of the day, there's _nothing_ I didn't do for you. There is _no one_ in this entire fucking world that I love so much as I love you. And I'm not going to _stop_ loving you, just because you've deemed yourself too damaged for me to touch."  
  
She pressed the edge of the dagger into the brunette's thigh, dragging it slowly up the inside of it, not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to set every nerve in Morgana's body on fire with the thought of what it _could_ do.  
  
She gasped as Morgause trailed the knife higher, pressing in just a little harder, enough to sting. Her hand flew down to try to wrestle the weapon away from herself; at the same time, Morgause was kissing her hotly beneath the ear, breath labored, and Morgana found her ability to struggle somewhat compromised.  
  
"Easy, Morgana," the blonde mumbled chastisingly, lips skimming over the surface of her sister's neck. "Don't fight me, sweetheart, come on."  
  
"Morgause…" the younger woman stammered. The cool handle of the dagger brushed against her clit and she cried out in sudden panic, her eyes snapping open wide as she dug her nails into her sister's shoulders, trying and utterly failing to push her away.   
  
"Stop, Morgause, please," she begged frantically, chest heaving in spite of herself. "Please just, you have to stop…"  
  
Morgause leaned her head heavily into the crook of Morgana's neck making the younger woman shudder. "I don't think I can," the blonde breathed, and she pressed the blade the slightest bit harder against the inside of Morgana's thigh, bidding a thin line of blood to come beading up to the surface of her skin. Morgana cried out in surprise and as she did, Morgause dropped the blade to the ground with a clatter, grabbing her sister roughly by the chin and crashing their lips together.   
  
Maybe it was the relief that Morgause hadn't sliced her up to tiny pieces, maybe it was the slight disappointment that she hadn't, or maybe it was just the pure, unsullied want that she could feel in Morgause's kiss…whatever it was, Morgana couldn't find it in herself to fight this time. She grasped at her sister, pulling her against herself desperately, opening up, raw and hot against Morgause's touch.   
  
Morgause's groan came out as a purr and she slipped her hand over around the back of Morgana's thigh, lifting it up to hook around her waist. Morgana clung to her for dear life, quite certain they were both going to topple over onto he floor, but not really caring as Morgause mouthed over the tops of her breasts. Seeming to think the same thing, Morgause braced one hand at Morgana's side against the wall for a bit more stability before skimming her other hand up between the younger woman's legs, gliding her finger lightly against her slit.  
  
Morgana whimpered breathily, hips jerking forward to try to encourage Morgause to get inside her; the blonde responded by pinning the younger woman's hips so hard against the wall Morgana could hardly breathe. Her hand remained pressed hard between Morgana's legs, making the younger woman gasp for air, but she had stilled her ministrations completely and raised her head to look her younger sister in the eye.  
  
"I love you," the blonde said fiercely. Morgana was caught, speechless and panting, and suddenly resentful once more at her sister's words. She made a feeble attempt to push herself away from Morgause; Morgause grabbed her by the chin and forced her to look at her. "Do you understand?" she asked the brunette. "Do you understand that I love you?"  
  
Morgana swallowed, trying to get her breathing under control, finding she couldn't. If she'd been younger, if she'd still been capable of crying, she might have. But either her tear ducts no longer worked properly, or she just didn't know how to cry anymore, because she didn't. But she still found herself quaking under Morgause's gaze, hearing the words she never thought she would again, and raised her eyes to her sister's, saying tremblingly, "I understand."  
  
Morgause kissed her heatedly then, tongue slipping into her mouth at the same time her fingers slipped up inside her, plunging in and out relentlessly. Morgana moaned hard into her mouth, then let her head fall back as Morgause overtook her, stronger than her as always. Against every will, she found herself trembling at her sister's touch, clenching down around her fingers, her head hitting against the wall behind her as she came, fighting against it the whole time, and hoping it would never end.  
  
At the end of it, she could hardly find it in herself to stand, so she sank to the ground, Morgause following, arms still around her. She let herself lay back onto the floor and Morgause settled on top of her, nestled between her legs. The blonde looked down at her younger sister, tracing her face with her fingernail.  
  
"I love you," she said again.  
  
Morgana allowed herself a small smile, finding it warm. "Yes, I was starting to suspect that a bit," she said. Morgause grinned.  
  
The brunette rolled her over so she was on top, catching her sister by surprise. She stared down at her, feeling suddenly lost again. "I don't know how to do this," she said quietly.  
  
Morgause raised her eyebrows. "As I recall you know _exactly_ how to do this, Morgana Pendragon," she replied.  
  
"No, I mean…" Morgana laughed as she caught on to her sister's words. "…I just mean…this. Being with people. And not killing them. I'm not sure I'm very good at it."  
  
"Well lucky for you, I'm already dead," Morgause informed her, "more or less, anyway. And, not to poke holes in that inflated sense of pride you've got, but I'm still privy to a few magic tricks you've never even heard of. So I think I could take you, if that's what it came down to."  
  
"You think you could _take me_?" Morgana teased.  
  
"Oh that's right, I already did that, didn't I?" Morgause returned with a lilt, tilting her head playfully up at the brunette.  
  
Morgana spied the dagger lying on the floor not to far from them and made a grab for it, pressing it down lightly against Morgause's throat. The blonde's breath caught, but her eyes glittered.  
  
"And now?" Morgana asked her. "Still think you could take me?"  
  
Morgause answered by tugging on the brunette's hair, pulling her down into a kiss. Morgana melted against her as she danced her tongue furiously against her (Morgause really had quite the tongue on her, didn't she) but pulled away suddenly when she felt her sister trying to slip the dagger out of her hands.  
  
"Ah--no!" she exclaimed with a giggle, tightening her grip on the handle and angling the blade so it rested just under Morgause's chin. She felt the older woman shiver beneath her and grinned devilishly. "You got to play with the knife last time, it's my turn now."  
  
Morgause feigned a pout. "Wow. You really are the same as always. Greedy," she said, shifting under her younger sister, making the brunette tense above her. "Fine," she continued in mock surrender, relaxing against Morgana's hold on her. "But I want you chained to those shackles in the ceiling next time, and I want to use… _that_ …on you."  
  
Morgana twisted her head to look at the instrument on the wall that Morgause had indicated. She wasn't totally sure which one it was, either the multi-braided whip, or one of those things with the sticking-out spikes. She regarded both suspiciously before deciding, what the hell, it's not like she could ever really say no to Morgause anyway. Obviously. She turned her head back to look at the blonde.  
  
"We're never going to just have a normal relationship, are we?" she asked.  
  
Morgause looked at her curiously. "You mean because we're sisters, because we're magical, or because we're dead?" the older woman inquired.  
  
"I…well, I was more thinking because of the weapons and how you're abusive and controlling and I guess I happen to like that and…" Morgana broke off. "But, yeah,  I guess…I mean, sure, if you wanted to make it all _dirty_ , I guess because of those other things too."  
  
"Morgana, can you honestly ever think of a time when I'm _not_ trying to make things all dirty?" the older sister asked.  
  
Morgana silenced her with a kiss, letting the knife fall forgotten to the side. Morgause had always been the one who really liked toys anyway; for now, all Morgana really wanted was just to touch her, get lost in her. Maybe she really hadn't changed. Maybe she was going soft again. Maybe that was okay, maybe. If Morgause loved her, if Morgause took care of her. Maybe she could actually be that thing that…what was it, rhymed with snappy.  
  
Happy.  
  
God, she really _should_ be a poet.  
  
Later, when they were finished and still hadn't managed to get up off the floor, and Morgana's limbs were all wrapped around Morgause where they were always meant to be, Morgana murmured softly, "Morgause?" and the older woman turned to look at her, eyes dark and endlessly patient.  
  
Morgana took a deep breath. "I love you too, you know," she said. She panicked the moment the words were out and stuttered, "I mean, I don't know that I'm really any good at it anymore, loving people I mean, I mostly only know how to throw people against walls and torture them with snakes, but if I can…I want to. I want to love you. I do love you."  
  
Morgause reached over, cupping her jaw in that almost-cliche way that still managed to send jolts of pleasure all through her body. "I know that," the blonde answered.  
  
"And I promise when Arthur returns, I won't fail you again."  
  
Morgause pressed their foreheads together. "Morgana, you never failed me," she said. "Never."  
  
"I may have slipped up a couple times though. I mean, I did get myself killed."  
  
"Well. That happens sometimes."  
  
"Sometimes. Yes. More often than it really should, actually."  
  
"Well we've got the next several hundred years to get you strong enough to not let it happen again," Morgause said. "Not to mention plotting your brother's demise. Again."  
  
Morgana nestled against the blonde's shoulder, feeling a heavy warmth take hold of her. "I miss plotting things with you. Plotting by yourself just really isn't as fun."  
  
Morgause smiled. "Let's save the plotting for next century," she said. "I've got other, far more interesting things in mind for us until then."  
  



End file.
